


Mile High Clubbed

by Teragram



Category: Psych
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:26:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teragram/pseuds/Teragram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawn and Gus investigate a murder on an airplane, thirty thousand feet over Las Vegas, that threatens to spoil their Fall Hiaitus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mile High Clubbed

Shawn was in a good mood. I could tell because from the moment I picked him up it was a constant litany of “The white zone is for immediate loading and unloading of passengers only,” and “There is no stopping in the red zone.” Not that I minded. This week was all about cutting loose together. It was October, the time of year when Shawn and I traditionally take a break from work and do something fun. Shawn likes to call it our Fall Hiatus.

Truth be told, this vacation had come none too soon. I think it was Ralph Waldo Emerson who advised us to keep our friendships in good repair, and while ours certainly wasn’t falling apart, given the mileage it had accrued, it needed a tune up.

Never let it be said that I begrudge Shawn his independence. He’s a grown man and I get that sometimes friendship has to sit out a few songs so romance can take a twirl on the dance floor. And one doesn’t have to be a psychic detective—or even be pretending to be one—to know that his recent busy evenings were related to his love life. Sure, I was a little bummed that he hadn’t introduced me to the lady who was occupying three out of seven evenings of his week, but I wasn’t dwelling on it. Burton Guster’s got enough bettys on speed-dial to fill his free evenings. And I knew Shawn would share the details with me when he felt the time was right. Friends trust friends.

So when Shawn proposed that we finally take our long discussed trip to Sin City, I was in. Our expectations for Vegas were, not surprisingly, wildly divergent. Which is to say, mine were realistic. Shawn was hoping to break the bank at baccarat, bust a diamond smuggling ring, arrest a creepy killer duo and rescue a reclusive millionaire, all while wearing a tuxedo. Personally, I was looking forward to seeing a live performance of The Lion King, and attending the Age of Chivalry Renaissance Faire, held in Sunset Park. I’ll leave you to judge which of us had a better shot at enjoying his vacation. I’ll only add that the Boar’s Head Feaste features a six course meal, beautiful women in renaissance costume, and live entertainment, all for $25 a head. Enough said.

But back to my main point, which was that starting off our week of male bonding by harkening back to Airplane! was entirely appropriate. We’d seen it on late night television when we were six, and been instantly hooked. We stayed up until 11pm eating Pop Rocks and acting out scenes from the movie. So it wasn’t surprising that he started speaking Jive as soon as we boarded the plane.

“Sheeet, man,” he said, smiling at me. “That honky mus’ be messin’ my old lady. Got to be running cold upside down his head!”

Normally I discourage Shawn’s attempts at Ebonics. Primarily because he’s terrible at it. But we make an exception for Airplane! I like to refer to it as the Gibbs-White exemption. Although to be fair, perhaps White’s name should be first, as he had a more extensive acting career.

“Hey Homes,” I said. “I can dig it. You know he ain't gon’ lay no no pig rap up on you, man!

“You know what they say,” Shawn said. “See a broad to get that bodiac,”

Shawn stuck his hand out for a low five. “Lay 'er down and smack 'em yak 'em!”

“Cold got to be!” Our palms connected in a loud smack.

“Sheeeet!”

However, the joy of our Abrahams-Zucker-Zucker repartee was short-lived. I’m pretty good at sensing shifts in Shawn’s disposition, and within minutes of boarding I could tell that his mood was plummeting faster than my Netflix stock.

“Awwww, that guy’s going to be sitting with us!” Shawn dropped his shoulders and looked up, as if appealing to divine assistance. “This could ruin our whole trip!”

Shawn is overly dramatic. It’s part of his charm.

For those of you unfamiliar with air travel, allow me to explain the seating arrangements of a Boeing MD-80. This particular aircraft is a quiet, fuel-efficient twinjet, which seats up to 172. It has a 2-3 seat configuration, which means that the left side of the plane has a row of two seats (seats A and B), and the right side has a row of three (seats D, E and F). I suppose row C is the aisle, although I’ve never seen it labelled as such. We were in seats 24 E and F, which meant that the aisle seat was free.

I looked in the direction Shawn was indicating. Our potential seatmate was bottlenecked several rows away by the passengers stowing their luggage in the overhead bins.

What makes you think he’s with us?” I asked. “He could be sitting anywhere.”

“Uh-uh.” Shawn shook his head vehemently. He took a deep breath and I knew I was in for a classic Shawn explanation. You know the kind—where he notices so many details that it makes you feel as if you go through life with a paper bag over your head.

“Assuming he obeyed the boarding call,” he began, “he’s in rows 17-26. He’s looked to his right only once but he’s checked the left aisles three times, which means he’s on our side.”

I looked at the section of plane ahead of us. Rows 17 through 20 were already full on our side, but there were at least three empty seats—a fact that I didn’t hesitate to point out. But if you know Shawn then you probably know how challenging it can be to argue with him.

Shawn smirked and jerked his head in the direction of a man who resembled Paul Wight in a seat ahead of us. “The Big Show-looking dude in row 21 clearly bought two seats, since there is _no way_ he is going to be able to put the arm rest down. And the frat boys chatting up the girls in 25 A and B belong in seats 22 and 23 D.  Mr. Seatcrasher McFunStealer over there hasn’t looked further than aisle 25, which is full already. Thus, process of elimination, he’s sitting here. With us.”

I looked. Shawn was right. I was big about it. I let him have the win.

“Maybe we can move,” he suggested, gazing around the plane as though hoping to see a bank of empty seats.

I didn’t need his powers of observation to know that the plane was fully booked. Vegas is a popular destination, and all the two-seater rows had been taken when I booked.

“Maybe he’s getting off in LA,” I suggested. Santa Barbara Municipal Airport doesn’t offer direct flights to Vegas, so we had a connection to make at LAX.

“No way,” Shawn said. “He’s wearing a World Series of Poker lapel pin. He’s probably got some elaborate plan to break Vegas with a team of card counters or grifters. Maybe a crew of men dressed as Elvis. I bet he takes up all the armrest space building a miniature replica of the Bellagio vault.”

“Or he may just read a magazine, like a normal person.” In my experience, air travel is made more tolerable by a good distraction, and I had brought a plethora of reading material in my carry-on. I was particularly looking forward to perusing my Heritage Auctions comic book catalogue. Sure, I wouldn’t be putting in a bid on Todd McFarlane’s original art for Spider-Man #328, which goes for well over half a million dollars, but I had a decent shot at rounding out my Black Lightning collection, or snagging a piece of David Messina’s original art for the True Blood series. He draws a hot Sookie.

“This wouldn’t have been a problem if you’d gotten us seats in first class,” Shawn grumbled.

“Relax. We have good seats,” I assured him.

“I beg to differ,” he argued. “In fact, these seats suck! We deplane last, all the good snacks will be taken by the time the stewardess gets to us, and we have zero chance of sneaking into first class. How am I supposed to meet famous people in this seat?”

“First of all,” I countered, “they haven’t been called stewardesses since the 80s. They’re flight attendants. Second, these are excellent seats. We have quick access to the emergency exits and the lavatories without having to deal with the limited recline of rows 19 and 20. Plus, it’s been well established by Popular Mechanics that passengers sitting behind the trailing edge of the wing have a 69% chance of survival in the event of a crash, compared with only 49% for passengers in first class. I rest my case.” ~~~~

He sulked. “Well now I have to sit next to a stranger. How safe is that? This guy could be a hijacker.” He looked at me with that stare he gets when he’s trying to use the Jedi mind trick on you.

“Give it up, Shawn,” I said. “The Jedi mind trick has never worked.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“Becoming a Jedi takes years of spiritual and physical training, Shawn. You fell asleep watching Eat, Pray, Love.”

“Can I help it if I nodded off during a Julia Roberts travelogue that would have been more interesting if it had starred Anthony Bourdain?” He nodded toward our potential seatmate. “Anyway, all I’m saying is he could be Passenger 57.”

“Passenger 57 was Wesley Snipes’s character,” I reminded him. “I think you mean Charles Rane. He was the terrorist.”

“Exactly my point,” Shawn said. “We don’t know who he is. He could be Cyrus the Virus or the Marietta Mangler or…or…or…Del Griffith. Oh God Gus! What if he wants to sell us shower curtain rings and take off his shoes?” He looked at me with pleading eyes. “Quick! Switch seats with me. Right now, before he gets here.”

I shook my head as the stranger approached. “Suck it up, Shawn. You know I need the window seat or I get airsick.” I gazed out the tiny oblong window at the tarmac, watching the luggage being loaded.

Shawn needn’t have gotten so worked up. Our seatmate stashed his suitcase in the overhead, nodded a hello and proceeded to bury his nose in a book about poker.

Given Shawn’s abilities, it can sometimes seem like he’s the only one of us who notices anything. Nothing could be further from the truth. While Shawn saw only an annoying intrusion, I saw a man of wealth and taste, with the good sense to choose safe and economical airfare. Our seatmate looked kind of like Adam Brody if he were cast in an episode of Mad Men. Now I am aware that some people have accused me of being a clotheshorse, which is not true. I simply appreciate the finer elements of a gentleman’s wardrobe, and I know a tailored suit when I see it. And the man in question was well dressed, even if I might take exception to his choice of matching tie and shirt colour. Monochrome is over. But I digress.

Given that his carry-on, the Louis Vuitton Pégase 45, retails for almost three thousand dollars, I instantly pegged him as what they call “a whale”—someone prepared to spend large amounts of money gambling. Whales often get hotel suites, drinks, tickets to sold-out shows, and other amenities for free. It’s called “being comped.” By comparison, Shawn doesn’t even bring a carry-on bag. He just expects me to have anything he might suddenly need.

As for our seatmate, I’ve moved amidst the upper crust enough to know that nobody invests in a suitcase that expensive unless they travel often. And given his choice to sit in our row rather than in first class, if I were pretending to be psychic, I might go out on a limb and venture that he’s a frequent reader of Popular Mechanics with a highly developed sense of self-preservation. I know, I know. Sometimes I impress even myself.

Take-off came quickly, and while I am in no way a wuss, the sudden elevator drop of my stomach as we ascended had me clutching the airsickness bag, just in case. After the shudders of take-off had segued into a smooth even flight, and the seatbelt light dimmed, I opened my carry-on and pulled out my pill case, lowered my tray and lined up my travelling medicines.

“Looks like you picked the wrong week to quit amphetamines,” Shawn joked.

I smiled. “These aren’t amphetamines.”

“Well what are they then? You look like you’re going to a rave at Michael Jackson’s house.”

I gave Shawn a smack on the back of his head. “Too soon.”

I turned to my pills. “They’re a precautionary measure,” I explained. The majority of them were vitamins, one was an anti-nausea pill, but my ace in the hole was a new drug that Central Coast Pharmaceuticals was promoting. The air in a plane isn’t humidified, so the protective mucosa of the mouth and nose, which acts as a barrier to bacteria and viruses, dries out, increasing our susceptibility to infection. Mucosamine was designed specifically with air travel in mind and I was looking forward to trying it out. And lest you be concerned that I use my position to abuse prescription meds, don’t worry—it’s OTC.

I retrieved my lunch from my carry-on and began to unwrap it.

“Please tell me you didn’t bring your own in-flight snack,” Shawn said.

“Mucosamine needs to be taken with food,” I explained patiently, “lest it damage the lining of the stomach.”

Shawn gestured at the elegant flight attendant, making her way toward us with a cart of drinks and snacks. “They have food here.”

“Do you have any idea how many people get food poisoning every year?” I asked. “Forty-eight million. That’s one in six, and it ain’t gonna be me.” Shawn may not care about the sad demise of food safety in this nation, but I do my research. A recent FDA inspection of inflight catering companies found issues with roaches, rodents, and meat cooked and stored at inadequate temperatures. And lest you think that vegetarians are immune, their lab results showed a high coliform count in rice. Basically, anytime you eat something you haven’t prepared yourself you’re taking your life in your hands. It’s one thing to risk life and limb for delicious flavour when I’m home—and I do sometimes live on the edge like that—but taking that risk before my vacation? Not going to happen. And traditionally, airplanes do not sell peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

The flight attendant leaned in, and I detected a delightful whiff of Jasmine.

“Would either of you like a drink?” she asked.

“Pineapple juice,” Shawn said, giving her a come-hither smile. “Shaken, not stirred.”

“Apple juice,” I said, and accepted the glass with a nod of thanks.

“What happened to forty-eight million people get food poisoning?” Shawn asked.

I shook my head. “The sterilization process that juice undergoes destroys almost all mold, spores and bacteria.” Sometimes Shawn just needs to get schooled.

Now something you may know about Shawn is that he’s a bit of a flirt. And by that I mean he flirts all the time. Our flight attendant reminded me a little of Halle Berry—Executive Decision Hallie, not Gothika or B*A*P*S* Halle. So of course she got the full Shawn Spencer treatment. Although to be fair, Shawn flirts with pretty much anyone. I remember having to drag him away from my great aunt at a Guster family picnic when we were fourteen, and I once saw him flirt with a male guard at Angel Stadium. So one should take his flirting with a grain of salt. Perhaps several. A light sprinkling, if you will.

To be fair, Shawn’s constant flirting has made him pretty good at it. Our flight attendant asked if he wanted something from the cart and within moments he not only had her name—which was Janice—but also had his glass of pineapple juice, a lapful of tiny bags of almonds, and was asking if she was seeing anyone, how long she’d worked for the airline, and if she flew the Vegas route often.

“I wish your mystery girlfriend could see you now,” I said once the attendant had left. “How would Miss Tuesday, Friday and Saturday feel about your little scene with Janice?”

Shawn laughed, but there was an undercurrent of insincerity about it. “The word indifferent comes to mind.”

“Three days a week doesn’t sound indifferent to me.” I wasn’t jealous.

Shawn looked away and pretended to be interested in the chair-kicking of a boy in row 26.

“There _may_ have been an argument,” he admitted. “And things _may_ have been said.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Things that can’t be unsaid.” He sighed. “Like reading from the Necronomicon. Klaatu veronica necktie. Let’s just say that when we get back I expect my week will be decidedly less busy.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

I was, genuinely. When I found myself having to compete for Shawn’s free time I hoped that he’d found someone special. It’s not often that anyone gets to keep their toothbrush at his place, so I had been pleasantly surprised when an Oral-B ProfessionalCare SmartSeries 5000 and two heads had shown up on his bathroom counter. I hadn’t met her yet, but already I admired her commitment to oral hygiene.

Shawn shrugged. “It was inevitable. Our whole relationship was like the basement in Cabin in the Woods. You’re bound to stumble over something dangerous, and when you do, bingo! Zombie hillbillies, creepy doll people, or carnivorous mermen. Or in my case, hurt feelings, harsh words, and slammed doors.” He glanced at our seatmate and then leaned in toward me. “Listen, shifting gears for a moment, I think Janice is worried about something,” he whispered.

“If I were her I’d be worried that you were going to pester me all the way to Vegas.” Lest you think my remark is indicative of callous disregard for Shawn’s post-breakup feelings, let me explain. Shawn has, on numerous occasions, relied upon me to raise the tone when things get too serious or depressing. It’s a responsibility I don’t take lightly. I was fully prepared to pull out the big guns if I had to, with a little ‘surely you can’t be serious’ action.

Shawn smiled, letting me know that my effort was appreciated, and leaned in further. “No. Really, Gus. She was totally preoccupied when I talked to her. And the worry lines on her forehead make her look like a chameleon.” He made an expressive hand gesture at his forehead.

“I think you mean a Klingon,” I corrected.

“Exactly!” Shawn didn’t miss a beat. “It’s like she knows there’s something sinister going on but doesn’t want to panic the passengers. Like maybe she’s seen David Suchet assembling a gun in the lavatory out of camera parts, or she knows both the pilots had fish.”

“Or maybe there’s a demon crawling along the wing of the airplane that only she can see,” I suggested, harkening back to that classic Twilight Zone episode, Nightmare at 20,000 Feet.

“Either way, I think we should keep an eye on her,” Shawn suggested.

“From where I’m sitting it seems like your eyes have been on her like a pair of Spanx.” Far be it for me to judge whether a man is cheating in his heart. But frankly, I suspected that Shawn’s sudden interest in Janice was more about the lines of her hips than the lines in her forehead. This did not bode well for Ms. Tuesday, Friday and Saturday. But then when it comes to romance, Shawn’s more of a sprinter than a marathoner. That’s not a judgement. I’m just saying.

Shawn tilted his head and smirked at me. “Fifty bucks says I get proved right before we reach Vegas.”

There’s a saying when it comes to gambling: know your limit, play within it. Part of the costs I’d budgeted for our Vegas trip included gambling losses. I wasn’t kidding myself—the odds favour the house, so I expected to lose. To me, those losses were part of the cost associated with the Vegas experience. I’d set a limit and written little post-it notes to myself attached to my credit cards reminding myself of this plan. I’ve heard how crazy Vegas can make people. But Shawn seemed to be over-reaching, and I felt my money was safe.

“You’re on.”

I should have known better.

* * *

 

  
**Chapter 2**  

Our layover at LAX was supposed to last an hour and a half. I had estimated that this would give us just enough time to explore over a hundred years of Southern California aviation history at the Flight Path Learning Centre. Shawn, however, had other plans. He set off along the broad mall, keeping a dozen paces behind our seatmate.

“You’re following that guy!” I noted a few minutes after we’d disembarked.

“Well, duh,” Shawn admitted. “He’s obviously up to something. He’s more sinister than William Sadler’s naked Tai Chi in Die Hard 2.” He leaned against a pillar and watched as his suspect perused overpriced candy bars at a high-end chocolate store.

Perhaps you’ve noticed how high end stores always seem to hire modelesque women. We watched as Shawn’s suspect and the beautiful clerk strolled around the store, comparing boxes of truffles. Personally, I think that buying anything at an airport is a bad idea. The prices are ridiculously inflated.

They momentarily disappeared behind a display and Shawn moved for a better view. Given his druthers, he would soon have us pursuing people through restricted baggage areas, Bruce Willis style. I slipped my hand through the crook of his arm and tugged him in the direction of the Learning Centre. Shawn often needs physical direction.

“There’s nothing sinister going on,” I pointed out. “Admit it. This is our grade nine zoo trip all over again!”

Shawn paused. “I was surprised by how much detention trying to sneak into the habitat of an endangered California Condor can earn you. Honestly, I figured we’d get two, three days tops.”

“Well I’m not about to have a replay of that experience any time soon,” I affirmed.

Shawn nodded, as if I had agreed with him. “I still say that the condor, the gorilla and the otter were plotting together. Something…nefarious. Never trust an animal with articulated fingers, Gus.” Our seatmate paid for his candy, grabbed his bag from behind a display of chocolate elephants, and left the store. Shawn waited a beat and then darted after him.

“No, they weren’t,” I maintained, running to keep up with him. “And neither is this guy. He’s just some random dude buying candy. Let’s go.” I tugged on his arm again, more forcefully.

“Sure, he’s buying candy _now_ ,” Shawn admitted, twisting out of my grip and looking around a corner at his suspect, “but he could be one sugar crash away from going all Ray Liotta on us.”

“He’s done nothing suspicious,” I objected. “He’s been sitting on a plane headed for Vegas, reading a book about poker. What’s so strange about that?”

“It’s the _way_ he was doing it. Trust me. This guy is fishier than Gary Oldman’s Russian accent.”

“No, Shawn. I am _not_ following some strange dude around the airport. I am going to the Learning Centre, and you are too.” I took him by the arm and pulled. This time I wasn’t fooling around.

Shawn pulled his arm free and rushed ahead as our seatmate walked into store selling magazines and electronics.

“Just a few more minutes,” he wheedled. “Twenty, maybe thirty tops. Just until he tips his hand.” He squinted at the man who was leafing casually through a copy of Forbes, looking for all the world like an innocent traveller. “There’s something about his suitcase that I don’t understand.”

“His suitcase?” I looked at the Pégase carry-on that he was wheeling behind him. “What is it?”

“It’s a container for carrying clothing and other personal items,” Shawn explained. “But that’s not important right now.”

He’d Airplaned! me, and I’d walked right into it.

“Enough.” I hefted my own carry-on bag over my shoulder and grasped his arm. “Learning Centre, now.”

I’m not usually a physical man. I prefer to fight using my keen wits and cutting remarks. However, there are times when one must resort to less sophisticated tactics. Especially with Shawn. And when those times come, I like to think that my physical fitness regime has left me more than a little prepared. Thank-you Crossfit and Arthur Murray Dance Studio.

I resorted to a grip I like to call the Guster Grasp. Shawn turned and struggled with me, trying to free himself. Unsuccessfully, I might add.

What you may not know about Shawn is that he fights like a ten-year-old girl. Not that I have a lot of experience fighting girls that age. But I did grow up with a sister.

 “Cut it out,” he hissed. “You’re making him look.” Shawn slapped at me and, when that failed to work, tried to use the Vulcan neck pinch. I knew that biting was not far behind.

“Leggo!”

“Shawn!”

No reference to Olivia Newton John intended, but things got physical. There may or may not have been a headlock involved, but I eventually dragged both my bag and a semi-boneless Shawn into the men’s washroom. I admit, that may have looked a little dodgy. I’m honestly surprised that security didn’t show up. I assume that at least one pair of eyes watched the whole thing on camera.

Once inside I blocked the door and released him. We stood hunched over for a few moments, catching our breath. Shawn clutched his side and grimaced, which just goes to show how sadly out of shape he is by comparison with me. Although when pressed he still refers to our sixth grade physical fitness test, in which he bested me by eleven points. In my defence, I was recovering from tendonitis that week.

“This is my vacation,” I said, using my sternest tone. “Our Fall Hiatus. When you start following guys around the airport, that’s not a vacation. That’s work.” Albeit unpaid, time-wasting work.

“So I’m a workaholic,” Shawn countered. “So sue me.”

“Shawn,” I said pleasantly, “since May I have been working my butt off and looking forward to three things. One, the season premiere of Castle. Two, watching the World Series while eating my own weight in chicken wings. And three, this trip to Vegas.” I glared at him as he stood petulantly, staring at the tiled ceiling. “I will _not_ have my vacation despoiled.”

“Fine.” Shawn sighed as if he had just agreed to spend the next hour getting his teeth cleaned. “Let’s go see the Flight Plan thingie.”

“Learning Centre.”

“Whatever.”

I believe in the power of positive thinking. I also believe in the power of negative thinking. Allow me to provide an example. An acquaintance of mine once joked about smuggling while pulling into the parking lot of an international airport. Not only did he almost miss his flight due to a long line at customs, but he was also randomly selected for a disturbingly thorough pat-down with a rather surly security officer. Bad timing? Random chance? Maybe. Or maybe not. I’d rather err on the side of caution and avoid comments that might lead to delays or stranger danger. You may not notice highly tuned listening devices or undercover operatives from Customs or Homeland Security, but they’re out there, believe me.

“Why can’t you support my detective hunches?” Shawn leaned against the bank of sinks and pouted at me while I washed my hands.  “He’s up to something.  I feel it.”

“You feel it.” I was sceptical.

“Yeah.  In my stomach.” Shawn clutched his abdomen like he had food poisoning.

“You’re just hungry,” I said.  “We’ll grab lunch after.”

Before you castigate me for my indifference, let me just point out that Shawn has done this to me before. Many times. There was the trip to Casitas Water Park when we were twelve where Shawn spotted a man violating the rule against bringing food or drink inside the park. Spotting a rule-breaker is one thing, but convincing your friend that said rule-breaker’s Gatorade bottle is actually filled with Anthrax and that we need to call the CDC to lock down the park is a holiday-ruining detour on the road to Funtown. For the record, it turns out that Anthrax is tan, not lime green.

“Okay, so I’m hungry,” Shawn admitted. “But that guy is definitely up to something.”

“You just want him to be up to something,” I countered.

“Sure,” Shawn admitted, “but that doesn’t mean he’s not.”

My point is that I sometimes wonder if Shawn doesn’t so much _uncover_ plots as he _nudges them into being_. My mother used to say that a watched pot never boils. In this case, it’s more like if you watch a pot long enough, someone boils something in it. And when the man from seat 24D inevitably did something that was _actually_ suspicious, I preferred not to see it. I was less than three hours away from vacationing in Vegas, and I didn’t want to be sidetracked by one of Shawn’s no-pay no-point cases.

Still, often Shawn is right.

“So what’s the deal with his suitcase?” I asked, holding my hands under the forced air dryer.

“It’s too big.”

Too big.  I could have throttled him with my newly clean hands.

We exited the bathroom and, keeping an eye peeled for any security guards, walked nonchalantly toward our destination.

“Let’s leave your suspicious poker player to whomever is sitting next to him on the connecting flight,” I suggested. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to use the time I have left to bask in our state’s history and eat inside a giant spaceship.”

“Fine,” Shawn said, “but don’t blame me if he starts singing Buffalo Gal Won’t You Come Out Tonight, and hacking at the plane with an axe.”

“Agreed.”

Truth be told, I thought that Shawn’s suspicions were just a distraction from whatever emotional turmoil he was going through. So over a tragically short lunch at the Encounter Restaurant I proceeded to grill him like the deliciously tender chicken breast on my sandwich.

The Encounter Restaurant is the most recognizable landmark at LAX. Simply put, it’s a 70 ft. Jetsons-style spaceship hunched over the airport, basking in the soft coloured light that sweeps majestically up its parabolic arches. The restaurant has been a fixture of LAX since 1961, or so their menu informed me.

Now there may be those among you who are thinking I’m a hypocrite for having made this particular pit stop, given that I refused to eat airline flood. However, I assure you that before choosing this gastronomical stopover I consulted the LA County Department of Health Facility Rating, and The Encounter Restaurant had passed their most recent health inspection with high marks. So I felt secure as I settled into my blue vinyl space chair and gazed out over the LAX parking lot.

“How’s your food?” I asked, nodding toward Shawn’s tropical salad.

“Fine,” Shawn said, staring toward the entrance, perhaps hoping for a glimpse of his forbidden quarry. “Listen, Gus, I owe you an apology. I didn’t mean to ruin your vacation.” He pushed a piece of pineapple from one side of his plate to the other in a listless, depressed kind of way.

“Apology accepted.” That’s how it is with best friends.

“I’ll be better once we’re in Vegas. I promise.”

“You know,” I said casually, “every relationship, has its ups and downs. The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.” Nelson Mandela said that. Or it may have been Brett Michaels on Rock of Love. I forget which.

Shawn ran a finger across the moon cratered wall and pursed his lips. I think of this as his thoughtful face, although the way he sticks out his lower lip, it could also make a good Lisa Rinna impression.

“I don’t know, Gus, it was a long fall,” Shawn said “We’re talking Felix Baumgartner jumping off a space balloon and falling into the Grand Canyon.” He demonstrated with a piece of pineapple on the end of his fork.

“It sounds like you really liked this girl.”

“You’re half right,” Shawn smiled, as if at some private joke. “But nothing lasts forever, right? I mean, even Mike and Ike broke up.”

“Do you think there’s any chance of getting back together?” I asked.

“Sure, eventually,” Shawn said. “I mean, once the campaign has run its course they’ll go back to the original packaging. It’s the cost-effective move, and they won’t want to mess with the branding.”

“I mean _your_ relationship,” I said pointedly.

“I’ll be watching new episodes of The Wire before that happens.” From the tone in his voice I could tell he was feeling regret, which I took as a sign of maturity. When Shawn’s relationships end he usually acts like he’s just escaped an onerous cell phone contract.

“What went wrong, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“We had an argument. An entirely foreseeable argument that managed to take me by complete surprise.” Shawn sighed. “I felt like those guys who got ambushed at the Anakin Skywalker in Die Hard 2.”

“That was the Annex Skywalk,” I noted. “And those guys were a SWAT team escorting Chief Engineer Leslie Barnes.”

“Well it was like that,” Shawn offered. “One minute it’s all Christmas bells and mistletoe and the next our communications are down and I’m getting shot in the head by Robert Patrick.”

Shawn’s romance metaphors sometimes take some untangling.

“You called it foreseeable,” I noted. “Were there any, uh, specific warning signs?” Shawn’s memory is alarmingly good, but how he chooses to use it is sometimes selective. As in, he tends to ignore anything that might suggest he’s at fault.

“I guess?” He gazed nostalgically at a red lava lamp nearby. “I mean, in retrospect, maybe the fact that one of us was all Atlantic Starr’s ‘Secret Lovers’ and the other was all REO Speedwagon’s ‘Can’t Fight This Feeling.’ It was like we were on totally different stations.”

I smiled sympathetically. Who hasn’t been in that situation? I chewed a bite of my sandwich. I suspected the sauce had tarragon and rosemary in it.

“Please tell me you weren’t a one hit wonder,” I said.

Shawn looked at me reproachfully. “Atlantic Starr wasn’t a one hit wonder. They also did ‘Always.’”

“Fair enough.”

I took this to mean that maybe Shawn wasn’t comfortable taking the romance public while the lady in question was more serious than he’d anticipated. Not exactly a surprise. Romance-wise, Shawn is kind of like Vince Clarke: he’s had some successes, most notable with Depeche Mode, Yazoo, the Assembly, and Erasure—that’s Clarke, not Shawn—but usually moves on to another commitment after about a year. That’s not how Burton Guster likes to roll. In terms of musical metaphors for romance, I’d rather be a member of the Funk Brothers—stable, creative, and with an unparalleled legacy. Plus, Standing In The Shadows of Motown was a damn good documentary.

“Are you going to be friends at least?” I asked.

Shawn laughed. “Not unless friendship looks a lot like The Running Man. I think it’s best of there’s a cooling off period where I don’t come within target range. Which is why this vacation is so well timed.” He raised his glass. “To Vegas!”

“To Vegas!”

As we boarded the plane to McCarron I noted that one of our flight attendants was the attractive Janice, from the Santa Barbara leg of our journey. Needless to say, Shawn noticed her too.

“Hello again.” He smiled widely at her as he handed over his boarding pass. “I’m Major Lee Generals and this is my associate, General Lee Majors.”

I smiled.

Janice took our boarding passes and ID, and gave them a close stare. “It says here you’re Shawn Spencer and Burton Guster.”

“We’re flying under the radar.” Shawn held his hand up as if mimicking a plane’s low flight path. Janice looked unimpressed, and Shawn’s doomed flirtation was causing people to accumulate behind us.

He jabbed a thumb in my direction. “And in case you’re wondering, yes. He can fly this plane in the event of an emergency.”

“She wasn’t,” I assured him, “And I can’t.”

The passengers behind us were giving us the glare of death. I accepted our boarding passes and ID, grabbed Shawn by the back of the jacket and pushed him forward. He turned his head and smiled back at Janice, all flirtatious self-assurance. “He can.”

I propelled Shawn toward our seats. “I had _one_ flight lesson,” I reminded him, “we never got off the ground, and my eyes were closed for most of it.”

“Like I said, dude,” Shawn said as he squeezed into the hated middle seat again, “You could fly this thing with your eyes closed.”

I stowed my carry-on under the seat ahead of me and gave Shawn my serious face. “I don’t know if you’re trying to get me into trouble or if it just comes to you naturally,” I said, “but I do _not_ want to spend the remainder of the flight in plastic handcuffs.”

“I’m sorry.” Shawn looked contrite and pulled a package of almonds from his pocket. “Salty nuts?”

I shook my head and stared out the window. Enjoying Shawn’s salty nuts weren’t going to make me feel any better right now.

Allow me to rephrase that.

* * *

 

**  
Chapter 3**

 Since I was travelling with Shawn, I should have known we were in for a bumpy ride. But I did entertain the thought that we were past the rough patch now that we had started the last leg of our Vegas flight. What can I say? I jinxed it. And while I’m not psychic, I sensed our impending doom as the guy Shawn had been stalking around LAX approached and slid his expensive carry-on bag into the overhead. Sure enough, he was sitting with us. Again.

Like I said, it sometimes seems as if Shawn is a magnet for trouble.

Since I was officially on vacation I ignored him during and after take-off, and focussed on using a hydrating nasal spray.

“Looks like you picked the wrong week to quit sniffin’ glue,” Shawn quipped. Then, after a moment he added, “What the hell _are_ you doing?”

I returned the spray to my carry-on, and focused on blocking my external auditory canal with my tragus while extending my jaw.

“I’m opening the Eustachian tube between my mouth and middle ear, allowing the pressure in this cavity to equalise. It’s a recommended procedure for addressing ear blockage at high altitudes.”

“Chew some gum like a normal person.”

“This works just fine, thanks.” And it does. Without the added risk of tooth decay, I might add.

Once the anxiety of take-off was behind us, I developed a scheme to calm Shawn’s overactive imagination. My plan was simple: to engage our seatmate in conversation and prove to Shawn that he was just like us—a regular guy heading to Vegas. Even if he did exist in an entirely different tax bracket.

“Hello,” I said, using all the charm I’d honed during my work at Central Coast Pharmaceuticals. “It seems we’re sharing a row again.”

“Yes, it does.” Our seatmate agreed. That was a good start. In sales, it’s important to start them off agreeing with you.

“I’m Burton Guster,” I said. “And this is S—”

“Striker,” Shawn cut in. “Edward. But you can call me Ted.”

Our seatmate nodded a hello. “Joseph.”

“So, Joey,” Shawn asked, “ever flown to Vegas before?”

“It’s Joseph,” our seatmate corrected. “And yes, I have.”

“Ever been in a Turkish prison?” Shawn asked. Joseph didn’t reply.

“So, Joseph” I asked conversationally. “I bet you’re looking forward to tonight.”

He looked alarmed. “What?’

“Poker,” I added, gesturing at his book and his lapel pin. “Tonight’s the opening round of the World Series of Poker.”

He smiled for the first time. “Yes. I’m looking forward to that.”

“Ever played roulette?” Shawn asked.

“On occasion.” Joseph nodded.

“Well, let me give you a word of advice,” Shawn said. “Always bet on black!”

While I appreciated the Snipes shout-out, our seatmate looked confused. Burton Guster to the rescue. “It’s better odds,” I pointed out. “47.37%.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“Don’t mention it.” While he might be into poker, he certainly wasn’t into roulette. Otherwise he’d surely have remarked that the same odds apply to betting on red, odds, and even, as well as 1-18 and 19-36.

“We’re going to Vegas on vacation,” I shared.

“Have fun,” Joseph said, burying himself into his poker book again. As far as ‘getting to know you’ conversations went, I’ve had better.

Ten minutes into the flight Shawn was craning his neck around the heads of the passengers in front of us, trying to spot Janice.

“There are more fish in the sea,” I suggested. It was pretty clear that when it came to Janice, that particular fish just wasn’t biting.

“It’s not that,” Shawn said. “I asked for a Sprite, but she hadn’t brought it.”

“You just had an enormous coffee before we boarded,” I pointed out.

“But now I want a Sprite. A complimentary Sprite.”

Shawn would just have to suffer. After his heavy-handed moves as we boarded, I was pretty certain we wouldn’t be graced with Janice’s elegant presence any time soon.

Twenty minutes into the second flight our mysterious seatmate unbuckled his lapbelt, stood, and headed for the lavatories. To be honesty, I was relieved. Maybe now, I hoped, Shawn could concentrate on something else.

“New tactic,” Shawn announced. “I’m going to interrogate this guy and get him to reveal his twisted plans. I’ll need a rubber band, three yards of saran wrap and a plastic spoon. Also, all the packages of pepper you can get your hands on.”

“I don’t see why you have to pick on Joseph,” I said. “There must be lots of suspicious people on the plane. Why focus on him?” I nodded my head down four rows to a man whose face reminded me of James Cagney. “What about that guy? He got ‘criminal’ written all over his face.”

“Don’t take his face at face value,” Shawn said. “Guy’s an air marshal.”

“How can you tell?” I asked, lowering my voice.

“He used priority boarding, but he’s seated in couch with us,” Shawn whispered, leaning in close. “Also, Janice gave him a free pair of headphones and a glass of juice. Plus he’s carrying a concealed weapon.”

“How do you know?”

“Well she handed him the drink but he didn’t pay for it,” Shawn explained.

“The _gun_ ,” I said. “How do you know about the gun?”

“Bulge, beltline, left hip,” Shawn said, looking bored now. “Listen,” he twisted his head back to look toward the lavatories. “If things go down with Joseph back there, we may have to pretend to use the escape pod, like Harrison Ford. Prepare to sneak hostages out the rear loading door with parachutes.”

“Air Force One was set on Air Force One,” I pointed out. “Commercial airlines don’t have escape pods. Or rear loading doors. Or parachutes.”

“What?” Shawn looked at me with disappointment, as if I had booked us on a flight directly into the sun. “No parachutes? How is that safe?”

“Using a parachute takes training, which we don’t have,” I explained. “They’d have to have one calibrated for every passenger’s weight, which would take too long. Plus, parachutes are heavy. Our tickets would cost _a lot_ more. Plus there’s the altitude to consider, and the time it would take to evacuate a plane that way. The risk of air travel isn’t high enough to warrant carrying parachutes.”

Shawn went into one of his huffs. Five minutes late he craned his neck and peered back, toward the lavatories.

“That Barry Mangold-looking dude has been gone for quite a while,” he noted.

“His name is Joseph,” I scolded, although by now Shawn’s suspicions had made me wonder if that was his real name. “I’d think you’d be glad,” I said. “You didn’t want him next to you in the first place.”

“I just think it’s hinky. He could have a bomb in there, like Sonny Bono in Airplane 2.”

“You’re not supposed to say the B-word on a plane,” I reminded him, looking anxiously toward the alleged air marshal. It’s that kind of talk that gets people shackled to their seat with plastic zip-ties.

“Fine. He might as assembling a,” Shawn silently mouthed the word “bomb” and jerked his head meaningfully toward the rear of the plane.

I opened my magazine. “Give the man a break. He’s in the bathroom.”

Shawn glanced back toward the lavatory.

“He’s been in there a loooong time.”

I glanced at my watch. Shawn wasn’t wrong.

“There could be any number of reasonable explanations. Maybe he has irritable bowel syndrome. Maybe he’s airsick. Maybe he's joining the mile high club.”

Shawn laughed that fake laugh he uses when he doesn’t believe anything I say. “What, are you saying he hooked up with someone in the twenty minutes he’s been on the plane? Who? The only people he’s even talked to have been you, me, and the stewardess.”’

“Flight attendant.”

“Whatever.”

I shrugged and tried to focus on my magazine. “He’s a good looking guy. It could happen.”

Shawn made a face. “Good looking? Please! At best he’s average. Not disfigured. Although I think he may have one shoulder lower than the other. And the beginnings of a hunch. You mark my words, if we check back on this guy in forty years, he’ll have the posture of a candy cane.”

“I have a good reason for you to forget about the lavatory,” I said, not taking my eyes from my magazine.

“What’s that?” Shawn asked.

I turned, trying not to let the triumph I felt show on my face too early. “It’s a small compartment with a toilet and washbasin. But that’s not important right now. What’s important is allowing people to relieve themselves in private while we concentrate on planning our first evening in Vegas. I held out my magazine, which featured a two-page spread of the Bellagio fountain. “I want to spend at least four minutes standing here, listening to Debussy’s Claire de Lune, Oceans-Eleven style.”

Shawn looked down at the image of the famous fountain, lit from below, taken at night. “Well great!” He threw up his hands and let them drop heavily. “Now I have to tinkle. Thanks a lot!”

“Tinkle? Seriously?” For a grown man, Shawn’s vocabulary can be very juvenile.

Shawn bit his lower lip and nodded vigorously.

“I told you not to drink that venti Caramel Macchiato before we boarded.” I gave him my best-I-told-you-so face. Because I had told him so. Repeatedly.

“Fine. How does it feel to be right all the time? Are you happy now? Because I’m not. I feel like I have a waterpark about to open in my pants.

“You’ll just have to wait your turn,” I said, “like everyone else.”

Shawn began to bounce lightly in place, which I knew from experience was a preamble to taking some impulsive and reckless action.

“I’m going back there.” He looked at me. “Come with me.”

“I am _not_ going to the bathroom with you, Shawn. No way.”

“Don’t think of it as going to the bathroom _with_ me. Think of it as expressing concern about the well-being of our seatmate. But with bathroom privileges.”

Against my better judgement, I followed Shawn down the aisle. One lavatory was empty and one was occupied.

“See,” I said. He’s using the bathroom.” I motioned to the empty lavatory. “Now hurry up and get your business done and let’s get back to our seats,” I urged.

“Give me a minute.” Shawn pulled a plastic spoon from his pocket and slid it into the lock of the occupied lavatory. I moved so that anyone glancing in our direction wouldn’t be able to see him putting his Very Bad Idea into action.

“You knew you were going to do that when you left your seat,” I accused. “You even brought a spoon!”

“Well, duh!” Shawn turned the plastic spoon and the door sign rotated from ‘Occupied’ to ‘Vacant.’ He opened the door and stared inside with that head-tilt he gets whenever he sees something interesting or puzzling.

“Oh-oh. Looks like our suspect’s been eliminated from America’s Next Top Assassin.”

I glanced into the lavatory. Our former seatmate was fully clothed, seated on the lidded toilet, slumped over with his torso resting against the sink. His head looked like it had been smeared with raspberry jam. Maybe strawberry.

I admit it, I opened my mouth to scream. Shawn immediately clamped his hands over my mouth and eyes. In a way, I was grateful. Screaming, although natural, isn’t exactly manly. And I wouldn’t have cared to spend the rest of the trip with my fellow passengers thinking of me as the girly screamer.

Shawn released me and sighed. Our erstwhile seatmate was definitely dead. As far as I could tell, he had been bludgeoned. Our watched pot had boiled.

“I think we're going to have to face it,” Shawn said. “We are _not_ going to be allowed to use this bathroom.”

I felt my stomach drop 10,000 feet and I covered my mouth. “I’ll get the flight attendant,” I mumbled.

“Give it a minute,” Shawn said, grabbing me by the arm. He motioned to the lavatory that didn’t have a dead man inside it. “I still need to tinkle.”

* * *

“So you opened the lavatory door and just _happened_ to find your seatmate,” he consulted his clipboard, “Joseph Cooper, bludgeoned to death. With a fire extinguisher.”

You know those moments when you can tell that someone doesn’t believe you? And you can see all the repercussions of that disbelief stretching into the future like a highway leading directly to Sucktown without any off ramps? This was how I felt when Agent Walton, McCarren International Airport’s head of security, started talking.

“Yes. Exactly!” Shawn said. “It was like the Turbulence episode of CSI: NY, only I’m Gary Sinese and he’s Justin Shilton.” He pointed to me.

“Why am I Justin Shilton?” I asked, annoyed at being made some random white dude in a cameo role. “Why can’t I be Hill Harper?”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “Because you’re the guy I know is innocent, since you were next to me the whole time.”

I nodded. I could live with that.

It was evident that Agent Walton didn’t believe us. Maybe it was the way he glared at us from beneath his John Houseman eyebrows. Maybe it was the way the air marshal (who was indeed the Cagney look-alike) had walked us directly to the security office when we landed. Maybe it was the way they were searching our luggage. Or maybe it was the fact that we were the only ones being questioned in a small windowless room. Take your pick. Either way, I was pretty sure we were going to spend our vacation in jail, instead of exploring the amenities of our suite at the Bellagio.

Our fellow passengers seemed to think we were guilty. I’d seen them as they filed past the office into the waiting room, glaring at me with their sullen faces, and pulling their luggage behind them. Even Janice has given me a dirty look as she went.

Shawn tried pulling rank. “Look,” he said, “the truth is I’m a well-known psychic detective.”

The Houseman eyebrows drew together. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m completely serious,” Shawn countered. “And feel free to call me Shirley.”

“In fact,” I added, hoping to bring a more serious tone to the discussion, “our agency consults with the Santa Barbara Police Department all the time. We’ve solved over a dozen cases this year alone.”

“You can ask them,” Shawn said. “Call them. Ask for Detective Carlton Lassiter.” Almost as soon as he said it Shawn pulled his ‘I’ve made a horrible mistake’ face. You know the one. Like a deer in the headlight that has just realized he left the stove on. “No! Do _not_ ask for Detective Lassiter.” He laughed and looked at me. “Did I say _Lassiter_? I meant O’Hara. Ask for Detective Juliet O’Hara. Or Chief Karen Vick. Either of them. That’s Vick spelled V as in Victor, I as in Icecream, C as in cookies….”

Agent Walton wasn’t listening anymore. He looked up the SBPD on his computer and dialled the number.

“Let me speak with Detective Lassiter.” He smirked at us and pressed the button for speaker phone.

“Hello, Detective Lassiter? This is Agent Walton with McCarran International Airport.”

“What’s this about?” Lassiter isn’t exactly the template for polite and courteous, but given his tone, I thought he must have been having an especially bad day. And I was there for his disastrous surprise-we-told-dangerous-felons-where-you-live party. Although to be fair, some of those felons did bring birthday gifts, so they can’t have been all bad.

“I’ve got a Shawn Spencer here,” Agent Walton said. “He claims to be some kind of police consultant.”

“Is he in trouble?” I could hear the joy in Lassiter’s voice. It sounded like he had just worked his way to the centre of an I-told-you-so flavoured Tootsie Pop.

“Lassie! Dude!” Shawn pleaded, “Help us out here.”

“If I remember your words correctly, Shawn, you said that you, quote, ‘Didn’t want me sticking my nose into your business.’ Did I mishear you?”

“I didn’t mean my _Psych_ business, Lassie. You know that.”

“Still, I think you made it pretty clear. You don’t _need_ me. Yet here you are, calling.”

I folded my arms and refused to look at Shawn. I should have been relaxing in the Bellagio Towers, getting ready for a night on the town but instead I was probably about to be strip searched by a dude. And all because he’d had some kind of a blow-up with Lassiter he hadn’t even bothered to tell me about.

“I’m sorry, Lassie. Lassie, come on! I’m sorry.” Shawn looked at Agent Walton and then back at the phone. “Any chance I could talk to him privately for a few minutes?”

“I’m not your lawyer, Shawn,” Lassiter cut in. “I’m not your colleague or your friend or your,” he paused, “anything. You got yourself into whatever jam you’re in. You can get yourself out of it.”

“Can’t you just do me this one last favour?” Shawn wheedled.

“I’d rather sing Kumbaya with Justin Bieber,” Lassiter retorted. He hung up, and Shawn sat gaping at the dead line.

“I can’t believe my ears,” I said, glaring at Shawn.

“I believe your ears,” Shawn said. He turned to Agent Walton. “Can I make another call?”

“Sorry,” Walton said, not looking at all sorry. “One lifeline per round.”

“What about _my_ phone call?” I asked, not really expecting that would get us anywhere either.

“You’re not under arrest,” Walton pointed out. “You’re detained for questioning.” He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Vegas PD will be here soon. You can tell your story to them.”

We waited. And waited.

And waited.

I looked at my watch, then at our tiny grey cell and its uncomfortable metal chairs, then at my watch again. We’d landed just after 2:00 pm, and it was now creeping up on 3:00. If this went on much longer we were in danger of missing our check-in at the Bellagio, and maybe even forfeiting our reservation.  There wasn’t even any guarantee that we wouldn’t be held overnight.  If that happened we ran the risk of missing out on tomorrow evening’s showing of The Lion King. I glared at Shawn. Our tickets were non-refundable.

“We are not getting out of here any time soon,” Shawn said, reading my glare. “Unless you and I figure out what happened.” He raised an eyebrow, which does not make him look like Mr. Spock, however much he claims that it does. “Whadda say?” he asked. “You in?”

I hated to say so, but I knew Shawn was right. We had a case to crack.

* * *

 

**Chapter 4**

“How do you plan on solving a murder from here?” I asked sceptically, gesturing to our airport jail. “How are we supposed to question our fellow passengers? We can’t even see them? For all we know they’ve all been released.”

Shawn shook his head. “Nope. They’re still here. I saw Agent Walton’s clipboard. They’re being held for LVPD.”

I looked up at Shawn, who was pacing the tiny room. “Why was Lassiter so upset with you?”

Shawn shrugged. “You know Lassie. He takes things personally.”

“What has he taken personally this time?” I knew I hadn’t done anything to piss him off.

Shawn turned to the wall and traced the mortar between the cinderblocks.

“We may have had an argument,” he admitted. “And it _may_ have been about you.”

“Me? What have I got to do with this?”

“See, if I tell you, then the whole point of my argument with Lassie is kind of moot. So let’s just let it drop? ‘kay?”

“Kudos for using moot correctly,” I said, “but there is _no way_ I am letting this drop now. Spill it.”

“No. No no no.”

I have my share of secrets from Shawn. He doesn’t need to know about the gratifying popularity of my Cosby Show fanfiction. And no one will ever know the details of what happened at the SCA scrimmage of 1992. But I’d had my fill of being out of the loop on this one.

“Shawn,” I said gravely. “I’ve been your friend since forever. I was there for you when you got your first girlfriend, when your folks split up, and when you ate that weird cactus in New Mexico. I’ve seen it all. The good, the bad, and the hallucinatingly ugly. You can trust me.”

Shawn sighed. “Okay, fine. Not that there’s any point now.” He looked at the ceiling, as if hoping it would collapse and enable him to avoid this conversation. “You wanted to know who Miss Tuesday-Friday-Saturday was.” He hung his head, defeated. “It’s Lassie.”

“What’s Lassie?” I asked. “And don’t say ‘a tall thin grouchy detective’ because that’s not important right now.”

“It. Him. The person I’ve been seeing. Miss Tuesday-Friday-Saturday. It’s Lassie.” His face fell. “Or it _was_ Lassie.”

“I am _not_ hearing this.” I shook my head and folded my arms. “No!”

Now, I’m not saying that I had a problem with Shawn’s choice of partner. My sympathies go out to those consenting adults whose love is forbidden by unjust laws or social taboos. In fact, if the US Supreme Court hadn’t declared anti-miscegenation laws unconstitutional in 1967, some of my own relationships would have been illegal. But why, I wondered, out of all the tall, thin, pasty, heteroflexible men strolling God’s green earth, why did Shawn have to pick Lassiter? That’s pretty much where my head was at. I was dealing with the bisexuality thing; not so much with the Lassiter thing. I just hoped he could tell the difference.

He couldn’t.

Shawn punched me in my left bicep. Hard.

“You’re a homophobe. Admit it. All your talk about civil rights and politics and fair this and equal that and how I’m not supposed to laugh at some of the jokes on Family Guy and now you pull this….this…big homophobic rabbit out of your hat!”

His metaphor had gotten a little lost, but I saw where he was heading, and I cut him off at the pass.

“No.”

“What no?” He looked confused that I wasn’t offering point by point objections to his argument—if it could be called an argument.

“No. You do _not_ get to do this to me. You do not get to act as if you’re the injured party here. _I_ am the injured party. You kept a huge secret from me and then dumped it on top of my vacation.”

Sure, I’d made inferences over the years.  He hadn’t exactly macraméd himself a pair of jean shorts or made a spinach dip in a loaf of sourdough bread, but there had been signs.

“I’m your best friend,” I added.  “I should have been told.”

By rights, I should have been told via a series of conversation of a gradually increasing revelatory nature. The first one should have introduced Shawn’s interest in tall pasty men, while a second, much later conversation, might have broached his interest in Lassiter specifically.

“Okay,” Shawn scowled. “Okay, fine. You want to be told? You want to be told how he dumped me? How I called and texted him like, fifteen times, and he wouldn’t answer?”

“That’s rough,” I acknowledged. It must have been even rougher since Shawn couldn’t confide in me. I guess my sense that there was had been a strain in our friendship wasn’t my imagination after all.

“Was that your first time?” I asked.

“No,” Shawn laughed mirthlessly. “I’ve been dumped lots of times.”

“With a _guy_ , Shawn. Was it your first time with a guy?”

“If I say it was my first time with a guy whose name I actually knew, will that make me sounds like a slut?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “But I already had you pegged as easy, so that’s nothing new.” We sat in silence for a few moments, hearing only the sounds of footstep passing in the halls outside, and the far-off voice of an announcement over the PA system.

“If you don’t mind my asking…what did you see in Lassiter?” On an intellectual level I can get what another guy—a bi guy, for instance—might see in a Brad Pitt or a Blair Underwood. Even a Leonardo DiCaprio (Departed-era Dicaprio, not Titanic-era-Dicaprio). But Lassiter? He’s not exactly going to be the subject of a series of steamy memes on Tumblr.

“Come on, Gus. It’s obvious.” Shawn’s head quirked sideways and he got a dopey look on his face. Argument or no argument, the guy was still lovestruck. “He has that crooked little nose, like one of the Peanuts characters. And that weird habit of chewing while he thinks. He’s surprisingly agile for a tall guy. Plus he’s like Rosewood in Beverly Hills Cop 2 with his love of firearms and that cute lanky thing he’s got going on. You really can’t have too much firepower, you know.”

“Tell me that you don’t think you’re Eddie Murphy in this scenario.”

Shawn didn’t reply.

“Please.”

“Well I’m certainly not going to be Paul Reiser or Bronson Pinchot!” he said finally. He looked thoughtful. “Although I wouldn’t mind being Bridgette Neilson.”

“Hold the phone,” I said. The numerous nonsensical things Shawn had said that day suddenly formed a picture. “The argument you and Lassiter had was about whether or not to tell me about the two of you, wasn’t it?”

Shawn nodded.

“And,” I said, on surer footing now, “he wanted you to tell me about the relationship and you didn’t.”

“You got me,” Shawn smiled sadly. “I had him pegged as a real fan of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, but when the chips were down he was all ‘partners share everything.’”

“And you weren’t?”

“Personally, I was of the opinion that some feelings are like a tub of Haagan Dazs: best if not shared.”

“Did Lassiter tell Juliet?” I’d have loved to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.

“I think he would have, if things hadn’t gone down in flames over telling you.” Shawn looked sorry. I think if he had the chance again, he might take a different route. But admitting he was wrong is not one of Shawn’s strong suits.

I placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry that you and Lassiter broke up.” Never let it be said that Burton Guster is lacking in sympathy. “Still, I said. “The next time you decide to start dating a guy, I hope you select someone with a lot less baggage.” I looked at him reproachfully. “Or at least smaller baggage. Lassiter’s a divorced workaholic with a gun fixation whose last ex was a convict. That’s a pretty big bag to wheel into a new relationship.”

Shawn looked at me in that way he does when I’ve just said something brilliant. “Say that again.”

“The next time you decide to start dating a guy…”

“—no, no, the baggage part.”

“I just hope you pick a guy with a lot less baggage. Lassiter’s married to the job, he’s paranoid, heavily armed, and I think he’s still being sued by his neighbour over that squirrel thing.”

Shawn wasn’t listening. Instead, he ran to the doorway and shouted through the bars.

“Hello? Hello? Airport guys? Anybody there? I’d like to confess, please!”

* * *

In the fourteen minutes it took for anyone to respond, Shawn filled me in on what he’d deduced. As usual, I was impressed. But playing devil’s advocate is part of my job. It helps work out the rough spots before we go live with a dénouement. I will not have a repeat of the time we accused Henry Spencer of being in league with Santa Claus.

Fifteen minutes after Shawn’s expressed desire to confess, a round-headed guard with a blonde crew cut opened the door.

“You two. Come on! Agent Walton wants to see you.” The guard motioned to me and Shawn and we hurried to exit.

“Thank-you Simon Pegg’s anaemic little cousin,” Shawn said as he strolled through. All his confidence was back now, as was mine. Provided we could pull it all off, we just might make it to The Lion King after all.

Agent Walton was trying not to look smug, but he seemed pretty sure that he’d broken us. At least one of us.

“You win,” Shawn said, trying to seem contrite. “I’ll tell you everything, now, before LVPD gets here.”

Agent Walton almost smiled.

“On one condition,” Shawn added. “I get to say my piece in front of the crew and passengers.” He gestured down the hall to the waiting room. “I think I owe it to them.”

For a few moments I watched as Agent Walton’s desire to wring a confession from Shawn fought with his hesitancy to go along with any suggestion a suspect might make. In the end his desire to trump LVPD seemed to win out. Walton and two security guys herded us down to the waiting room.

Shawn addressed the assembled audience of flight crew, security agents, and passengers: “I am Shawn Spencer, renown psychic detective, and this is my partner, Johnny Wishbone!” He gestured toward me with both hands as if I’d just appeared in a puff of coloured smoke, like Criss Angel.

“Hello,” I greeted them, although their angry faces did not return my courtesy.

“Today our seatmate, D.B. Cooper…”

“Joseph Cooper,” I corrected.

“…was found in the lavatory, bludgeoned to death.”

“With a fire extinguisher,” I added.

“Which is weird,” Shawn said, “because they told me I couldn’t bring my Swiss Army knife on board, which is far less deadly.”

I gave him a warning look to keep him on track.

“And since this grisly murder has caused you all to be detained, I thought you ought to know who was responsible.” Shawn pointed an accusing finger at Janice. “It was you! The stewardess!”

“Flight attendant,” I corrected. Just because you’re accusing someone of murder is no reason to be sexist.

“You told me that you work the Vegas run every time,” Shawn noted, his confidence back in full force.

“So?” Janice crossed her arms and legs. It was classic defensive body language, but even so. That girl was fine.

“So, you got used to seeing Joseph Cooper. You noticed how he’d board at Santa Barbara with a small suitcase,”

“The Pégase 45, by Louis Vuitton,” I explained, for the benefit of the other passengers.

“…and he’d deplane at McCarron with a _larger_ carry on,” Shawn went on. “I noticed it when we were at LAX. He entered the candy store with one bag, and came out with another.” Shawn raised his palm, as if about to pluck fruit from an invisible tree of knowledge.  “I sensed immediately that he was boarding the plane for Vegas with more than just candy in his suitcase.” He squinted into the distance.  “I kept getting flashes of Depp and Del Toro driving through the desert in a Cadillac El Dorado convertible.”

“Drugs.” Agent Walton growled the word.  His angry eyes, which had been trying to burn a hole in the back of Shawn’s skull, lit up with interest and he transferred his sharp gaze onto Janice.

“Hidden inside the Pégase _55_ ,” I explained, looking significantly at the Louis Vuitton carryon she was now trying to hide behind her shapely legs. “Not the Pégase _45_ he’d arrived with.”

“Lots of people have a bag like this.” Janice shrugged. “45, 55, What’s the difference?”

“For starters, the Pégase 55 costs five hundred dollars more,” I offered.

“And, it’s about three inches taller,” Shawn said, smiling at Janice. “And we all know size matters.”

I caught his eyes and shook my head.  Now was not the time for sexual innuendo.

“You knew he was switching bags at LAX, but you didn’t report it.” Shawn picked up a copy of People magazine from a low table and rolled it into a tube. “Maybe you were short on cash, maybe you were just greedy. Who knows?” He put a hand to his head—a man in the grip of a powerful psychic vision. The audience was engrossed.

“I see you,” Shawn said, pointing at Janice with the rolled up magazine, “smiling at him, giving him that come-hither look that promises more than free almonds and soft drinks. I see you luring him into the bathroom and… _Kerplow_!” He used the magazine tube as a prop to strike at me, emulating the attack on the late Joseph Cooper. I allowed my knees to buckle slightly, for dramatic effect.

“With Cooper out of the way you were free to steal his bag,” I pointed out, gesturing to the bag in question.

“And those three inches leaves lots of space for little extras!”

“That’s a lie.” Janice said, chewing a corner of her pouty red lip. “This is my bag.”

“We can clear that up right now,” Agent Walton said. He strode over to where Janice sat, grabbed her suitcase, and unzipped it in one swift move. There, nestled among Joseph Cooper’s carefully folded shirts and pants was a large block of compressed white powder. I didn’t have to run a cobalt thiocyanate test to confirm what hundreds of movies had already proven. It was probably cocaine.

“Well well well!” Agent Walton looked happy for the first time in our short acquaintance.

“People trust flight attendants to make our trips safer and more comfortable,” I scolded her. “And you abused that trust to murder a man. Over drugs!”

“Shame on you for abusing our trust,” Shawn added. “And for never getting me that Sprite I asked for!”

“And shame on you for using your beauty for evil,” I added, thinking of how even the most innocent of passengers could have been mesmerized into joining her in a lavatory. There, but for the grace of God, go I.

Shawn slapped a hand on my shoulder and glared at her. “And for being a killer!”

I nodded. “Yeah. That too.”

* * *

“Dude!  We did it!” Shawn’s face was glowing with accomplishment.  He jerked a thumb in the direction of Walton, who was processing Janice and arranging for the release of our fellow passengers. “I’m going to go shake some babies and kiss some hands. You coming?”

I shook my head.  “No, you go ahead. Someone needs to confirm our reservation with the Bellagio.”  I pulled a stack of Psych business cards from my pocket.  “Pass out a few of these while you’re at it.” At least one of us keeps his mind on his money and his money on his mind.

I didn’t begrudge him the adulation; on the contrary, I felt his hard work deserved a reward beyond some back-slapping and glad-handing.

With Walton’s permission, I made my call.

“Lassiter.”  The detective answered the phone

I got straight to the point. “Hello Mr. Tuesday, Friday and Saturday evening.” There was silence on the other end for a few moments, but he didn’t hang up.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said finally.  Least convincing lie ever.

I glanced over at where Shawn seemed to be swapping stories with Agent Walton. “Shawn told me about the two of you,” I said, keeping my voice low so it wouldn’t carry.  “And I think I can safely say that he’s sorry.”

“He’s sorry.” Lassiter didn’t sound convinced.

“Look, Lassiter,” I was whispering now. “Shawn cares about you.  And I, more than anyone, want him to be happy. If he was smart he’d have told me about this whole…situation…from jump street.”

Lassiter almost laughed.  “Nobody’s ever accused Spencer of being smart.”

“If whatever the two of you had wasn’t that big a deal to you, or you’ve moved on, then I understand. But if you’ve had second thoughts about the breakup, then maybe you could come down here and the two of you could talk it—”

“—hold on _one_ minute,” Lassiter interrupted.  I could hear him yelling muffled instructions to someone and then he was back, angry and hushed.  “You think _I_ broke up with _him_?  Is that what he said?”

“Well, yeah,” I glanced at Shawn again, now wearing a pilot’s cap and surrounded by laughing flight crew. “He said you dumped him.”

There was a sigh on the other end, followed by a low muttering made up primarily of words I wouldn’t care to repeat. Then, “Where are you staying?”

* * *

28 hours later the lights of Las Vegas spread out like an electric carpet across the desert from our suite at the Bellagio. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, applying lavender oil to my scalp.

“This is the life!” I said as I strolled into the livingroom. By which I meant the glamour and excitement of Vegas, but also the joy of having slept soundly on a queen pillowtop mattress instead of a hard metal cot in airport jail. I pulled on my dinner jacket. “This is how I want to spend my golden years.”

“I thought you wanted to spend your golden years on a Caribbean island,” Shawn said, “sipping drinks with little umbrellas and helping ladies in bikinis choose between the lobster and the cracked crab.”

I nodded. “That too.”

There was a knock at the door. I glanced at the clock. I had over an hour before the Lion King started.

“I’ll get it!” Shawn hurried toward the door. “That’ll be room service,” he said. “Although if it’s a pair of perfumed assassins or a maid with a deadly shoe you’re obligated to help me out.”

It was neither. Shawn opened the door to a tall dark and cranky detective. Shawn’s jaw dropped and he stood stunned for a moment before he turned toward to me.

“I called him,” I admitted. “When they cut us loose at the airport.”

“You said you were confirming our reservation!” Shawn’s voice was all ‘how could you?’, but his eyes were all ‘thank-you!’

“I said that one of us should confirm our reservation,” I noted. “And then I made a phone call. You _assumed_ that’s what I was doing.” I grabbed my wallet from the coffee table and slipped it into my jacket pocket.

“Well you let me assume that.”

I shrugged. “And _you_ let _me_ assume you were dating a woman.”

“Tone down the welcome,” Lassiter said sarcastically, “I might melt.” He strode past Shawn into the room and dropped his suitcase on the carpet.

“Is there a poisoned blade in your shoe?” Shawn asked him warily.

“No, but I think you might have left your knife in my heart.” He dropped onto the plush couch, and helped himself to a handful of pistachios from a bowl. “I hope one of you has ordered food,” he said. “I’m starving.”

“We only ordered for two,” Shawn said. He glanced quickly over at me and then back at Lassiter.

I smiled. “Don’t worry about me,” I said, “ _I’m_ going out to dinner, and then I’m going to see the Lion King.”

Shawn looked at Lassiter with an expression whose meaning I could all too easily guess.

“Text me before you come back,” he said.

I didn’t need to be told twice.

And this, boys and girls, is where I’ll leave you. Suffice it to say that I had a delicious and economical buffet dinner, bonded with an attractive cosmetics rep I met at the salad bar, and the two of us discussed sales, dating, and the Circle of Life. As I led her to our seats in the darkened theatre, she squeezed my hand, confirming that I still had the moves that please the ladies. As they say, Hakuna Matata.

But that’s a story for another time.

 


End file.
